No One Likes Superman Any More
by woodbyne
Summary: It wouldn't be so bad if it were just the other nations and their people who'd developed this 'I hate America' attitude, but it felt like a knife in his back every time his own people said it. Alfred's angst. Brotherly fluff. Matthew's potty mouth. Enjoy.


**Utaria, you put ideas in my head!**

**I've been hearing a lot of 'I hate America' talk from Americans lately, and I kind of wondered how Al would feel about that. **

**Lyrics: No One Likes Superman Any More – I Fight Dragons**

_Strong hands, strong mind  
Strong all the time  
Straightforward and kind  
Too simply defined_

(Don't touch that dial)  
It's just that goodness is out of style)

Be dark, be cold (so conflicted)  
No hand to hold (heart constricted)  
Dark Knight, bright soul (we're addicted)  
No room here for the bold

America had grown up since the Cold War. He knew not to act the fool all the time, and he actually made sensible suggestions at meetings. He took care of himself and others as best he could and avoided causing any unnecessary unrest. He'd spent about ninety per cent of his independence at war, and he was tired. He was tired of fighting; he was tired of trying to be upbeat all the time. He was tired of his people fighting with themselves- the split in opinions were driving him crazy. He almost wished – and he really wished that he didn't –for the time after the nine-eleven attacks. It was one of the saddest, most terrifying times in his long life and he still wasn't anywhere vaguely near over it and doubted that he ever would be, but at least no one had hated him.

It wasn't as though it was just the other countries. They still saw him as a child. They dismissed his ideas, they turned their backs on him and his forced, steadily cracking smile until he didn't even bother anymore and a grim frown carved harsh lines into his face. It wouldn't be so bad if it were just the other nations and their people who'd developed this 'I hate America' attitude, but it felt like a knife in his back every time his own people said it. Every time a teenager sighed exasperatedly and muttered a dark, 'I hate this country,' every time someone said, 'I'm ashamed to be American,' every time an American looked at the Stars and Stripes in disgust Alfred Jones wanted to fall to his knees and cry. He only existed so long as his people believed in him. As long as they cared for him, he would survive.

Sometimes he could feel himself slipping away.

What had happened to his proud, brave people? What had happened to the people who believed that he could do anything? What happened to him being the world's hero?

Alfred didn't know.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting dust motes in the late morning light. He needed to get up. He needed to go to the meeting. He needed to at least show face, even if nothing he said would be taken seriously. Even if all he would get from the other countries was a cold shoulder and a few barbed comments. What was the point, actually? The meeting would probably run a lot smoother without him there. They wouldn't have to tell him to shut up.

Unshed tears built up in his throat and eyes, a solid block of misery that just refused to flow. The weight of the world's disgust sat leaden on his chest. Hadn't he once been the land of opportunity? Wasn't he America the beautiful? Land of the Free and Home of the Brave? It didn't feel like it. It felt like he was a filthy, dirty, money-grubby capitalistic pig. It felt like it wasn't worth getting out of bed at all, despite that he hadn't gone to sleep the night before. He had just lain down flat under the covers and watched night-time creep across his ceiling.

There was a loud bang downstairs. Alfred couldn't even be bothered to turn his head to look at the door. What was the point? Pride; gone. Dignity; gone. Self-worth? Self-respect? Gone. He had nothing left to take. Even fragile, damnable hope had long since abandoned America as he lay beneath the navy blue bedspread.

His room used to be decorated, but he'd taken that down. The pictures – from sketches to photographs – of himself and his presidents had been taken down. The copy of his Declaration of Independence was gone, the banners , flags, books, photos and autographs of his icons were shoved unceremoniously into a plain cardboard box in the corner, and all that was left was a dark, wooden bed with dark cotton sheets and oppressively blue walls. Alfred loved blue. Blue was on his flag. Blue was his favourite colour. The colour of freedom and the open sky. He just wanted to be blue again. Clean, bright blue, and then maybe everyone would stop hating him.

Footsteps clunking angrily- no, determinedly up the staircase.

Alfred wanted to spread his arms wide in the middle of a field and tip his head back, showing his face to that glorious blue sky and spin around and around and around until he was too dizzy to stand and he would fall back onto the grass and watch the sky take its turn at spinning.

A man burst into his room. He was a bit taller than Alfred with very similar facial features, though the thin bridge of the newcomer's nose looked like it'd been broken and badly reset. In a few strides, the man was at America's bedside, checking his pulse and letting out a gasp of relief when he found that not only was blood beating in the veins of the immobile nation, but he was breathing, too.

"Alfred?" Canada asked, gripping his brother's shoulders and shaking them gently, "Alfred, say something please! Tell me you're alright!" he sounded desperate. Alfred slowly raised his eyes to the Northern nation's face.

"'fine," his voice sounded hoarse; cracked with lack of use and barely the driest whisper, "Mattie. M'fine."

That Alfred's lips cracked and bled when he spoke did nothing to dissipate the worry etched into Matthew's brow.

"No, you're not. Come on, get up. You need to get up." Canada slipped his arms under Alfred's and hauled his Southern brother into a sitting position – Matt's always been able to throw Al around a bit. Even if America could be a slob, his posture was never as bad as this. His spine was curved in a defeated bow. Canada poked the arch of his back hard. Alfred barely even shifted. This was bad.

"Come on, Alfred, please, can you just do this for me? Co-operate. That's all I ask," Matthew asked as he jerk the American to his feet, drawing him a bath and plonking him in it – panic almost choked him when he realised that Alfred wasn't going to do anything himself.

It was only an hour and a half later when America was clean, dressed and Canada was holding out a forkful of fresh hamburger that Alfred even realised that his brother was crying.

"Mattie?" he rasped, "What's up?" he wasn't really in the mood to be sympathetic, but he didn't want his baby bro to cry.

"You fucking idiot!" the Canadian scolded through his tears, dropping the fork in favour of punching his southern brother in the bicep, "You've had me scared shitless! What's wrong with you, Al?"

"What? Nothing! There's nothing-"

"Bull_**shit**_! When I got here, you were _comatose_!" Matthew growled angrily.

"I- I- " Now Alfred realised that Matt's tears were dry, but his own were fresh and hot on his cheeks, "What happened to me, Mattie?" he asked brokenly, his eyes puffy and red, "I used to be so great. My people used to love me. Now they hate me! No one cares, Matt. I'm… I'm fading. And no one cares."

"You idiot," Matthew breathed, wrapping his arms around Alfred's shoulders and hugging him tightly, "I care. Don't I count?"

"Of course," the American breathed, fresh tears sting at his eyes as he hugged his brother back fiercely.

_And what if he can fly?  
Hey, well so can I  
Jet Blue or United Airlines  
And who cares if he's strong  
All we see's the wrong we've done  
Reflected in his eyes_

'Cause no one wants to know the man who stands for things we outgrow  
He's too noble and too blind  
We're all older now and we  
don't need someone to care about  
The innocence we left behind

**Because fluff is my drug. **


End file.
